“I can help her! Let me go!” The panic was so overwhelming that Miranda nearly shoved Faith away, but before she could summon the energy, she felt someone else grabbing her other arm—David.
“It’s all right, beloved,” he said. “Just hold on.”
Miranda, however, was beside herself and couldn’t be consoled. “Is she dead? Did they find her hand? I want to see her hand! David, please, I need to see . . .”
“Easy,” David murmured. “Come with me . . . one step . . . and another . . . it’s all right, just take it slow . . .”
He led her around the crowd of Elite—the patrol team that had come as soon as Kat’s emergency signal went out, and the second team headed by Faith that was arriving as Miranda stumbled toward the scene.
The street corner was splattered with blood. A woman’s form lay sprawled out on the concrete, blood oozing out around her, her car keys flung several feet away.
Kat was trying so hard not to scream. She was panting, half sobbing, every other breath almost a wail. Her bald head was dripping with blood, as was her arm . . . from the cleanly sliced stump where her hand had been severed. Someone had tied a strip of fabric as a tourniquet and it was already soaked.
Worst of all, there was a knife protruding obscenely from her abdomen.
“Kat, Kat . . .” Miranda was sobbing as Kat was sobbing, and the Queen fell down beside her friend, her best friend she couldn’t protect with all the immortal power in the world. “Help is coming, Kat, I promise.” She tried to reassure the human, doing anything she could, because it was why she was here . . . for all the good it did anyone.
“Miranda.”
A sharp voice cut through her panic, and she looked over Kat’s bleeding, broken body to see a pair of ice-cold lavender eyes fixed on hers.
“Pull yourself together, Queen,” Deven commanded gently. “She doesn’t need to see you like this.”
Miranda took a deep, shaking breath and threw her energy into grounding, bolstering her shields, and calming herself enough that she could look at the situation realistically.
She knelt beside Kat’s body, holding Kat’s still-attached right hand, while the Elite tried to stop the bleeding from her left arm and the wound to her gut. A few inches from Kat’s arm, the severed hand lay on a clean cloth, blood soaking into it.
Deven’s voice grabbed Miranda again. “Listen to me. You need to tell your people to step back and maintain their distance. The forensic team must start searching for evidence. There should be a trail—we caught the attacker by surprise and I wounded her. Tell them now.”
Miranda jerked her head up and gave her orders, and the Elite scattered.
“Now. You have a connection to this woman, so I will need your help to help her. Do you understand me? Let yourself be open to me, as if I were David calling for your energy. I’ll pull from both you and Jonathan. It will work faster this way. Open yourself, and stay grounded.”
Miranda fell into a cross-legged position that mirrored Deven’s, though he was on the side of Kat with the . . . hand . . .
“Focus!”
The snapped command made her look away from the gruesome sight and back down at Kat’s anguished face. Kat was crying, shaking, and so pale . . . Miranda opened her shields as she’d been told, but she also spared a tendril of her power to reach softly around Kat’s heart and soothe her fear, let her know that she was loved and taken care of, and now she was safe. She was safe, and loved . . . safe . . .
Kat stopped flailing against the hands that held her, and those hands lifted.
Miranda watched in rapt fascination as Deven closed his eyes and held his palms out over Kat’s body, first over her belly. He reached down and carefully drew the knife out of her flesh, laying the weapon on a sheet of plastic that would be wrapped for evidence. Then he held both palms over the wound and became very still.
All around them, sound seemed suddenly muffled, a strange peace descending over the chaotic scene. Everyone came to a standstill and turned to stare as the light in Deven’s Signet began to glow brighter and brighter . . . At first it seemed almost like a trick of the streetlamp, but soon it was too bright for that, becoming like an aura, or a halo . . .
Miranda felt a gentle tug at her shields, and she opened them wider to him, feeling him reach in and lift tiny sips of power at a time, feeding them into Kat’s body as if she were a starving baby bird. Blended with his own energy, and his Consort’s through their bond, Miranda’s power added strength and love to the mix, and soon she felt the wound begin to close, all the rips and gouges mending themselves, until even the skin that covered the wound began to knit, first an angry red wound, then a dark jagged scar, then softening to pink, then fading to white.
Miranda felt her own energy start to wane just a little and reached sideways to her Prime, who opened himself willingly; now, all four of them were part of the web, each feeding power into Deven, which he fused with his own and directed with utmost care to where it was needed, cell by cell repaired to blossoming health.
But Deven still hadn’t lifted his hands; his eyes were closed but his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up at Kat and asked softly, “Shall I bring her back, Katerina?”
Kat, too, had been overcome with peace and was breathing in tandem with the Prime, who waited for her answer. She smiled and said hoarsely, “Yes.”
Nodding, Deven closed his eyes again and went back to work; a second later Miranda felt something . . . something inside Kat fluttered, like a tiny hand waving hello.
Then he moved his attention up to her left arm, and this time picked up the poor severed hand and placed it against her wrist, holding his own hands over the joining, closing his eyes and breathing . . . in and out . . . in and out . . . for several minutes, while Miranda felt the ebb and flow of power through her, David, and Jonathan, then through Deven, and into Kat’s arm.
Finally, Deven withdrew both energy and hands, and a gasp went up all around them as the Elite saw that Kat’s wrist was whole again, without even a scratch.
Deven disengaged himself from the power matrix, and each of them did the same until their bonds were only for each other again. The connection among them was so infused with serenity, Miranda was reluctant to leave it, but she could feel everyone weakening. It was time to let go.
Miranda was crying, but she met Deven’s eyes. He looked like he was about to lose consciousness. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The smile he gave her was one she would always remember: It was one of pure peace, even bliss. Whatever his other gifts were, whatever creature he was, Deven had just done what he had been born to do. He was a healer. She would never doubt that again.
“David,” Deven said, “catch her.”
Just as Deven passed out and sagged sideways into Jonathan’s arms, so did Miranda do the same, falling backward against her Prime, who held her tightly and picked her up to carry her home.
“Thank you, Mr. Behr. Let me know when would work for you and your staff to reschedule, and send me a bill for their time tonight as well—I know it’s extremely inconvenient for you to have a no-show, especially when you go out of your way to set up for us late at night. Again, I apologize. Have a good evening.”
David hung up with a sigh and stood at the foot of the bed, watching Miranda sleep; she and Deven had been the worst off, and so far neither had woken in almost twenty hours. Jonathan said that he had seen Dev heal so intensely only two or three times before, and it always wiped him out for a day or two; vampires simply weren’t designed to burn energy that way. They were predators, not healers.
He wondered: Had Deven been born at a different time, with the abilities he had, would he have been a valued member of his tribe, perhaps a shaman or priest, instead of constantly coming under the scrutiny and abuse of men who thought their God couldn’t possibly have shared such astonishing powers with another? Or would he have been burned at the stake the way Lizzie had been? God, it seemed, had a rather caustic sense of humor.
David checked his phone again: a text from Elite 43, the guard he’d already assigned to watch over Kat, who was presently with her at the Signet-run clinic, where she slept in recovery. The clinic specialized in vampire-related injuries and had several immortal staff members who could alter memories as well as manage the symptoms of an attack or overzealous feeding. Kat had none of those, but no normal hospital would understand what she had been through. It was best to keep her somewhere that the doctors knew what she knew and wouldn’t refer her to the psych ward or try to involve the police.
The Prime had also ordered a guest suite at the Haven prepared for Kat. He doubted she would go along quietly, but he wasn’t about to let her stay on her own after tonight.
Another message, this one from Faith’s team on the scene: The blood trail had gotten them nowhere, vanishing midstride in the middle of the street, but they had collected samples that went immediately to Novotny, and hopefully the good doctor could discern something in the blood before it died. The weapon used to stab Kat had also been retrieved; an egregious error on the attacker’s part, but then, she had been interrupted.
David and Deven had Misted within five feet of Kat’s prone body and the vampire kneeling over her with a knife. Dev had been quicker on the draw and slammed a throwing stake into the woman’s back; she screamed and bolted, not even looking back. The stake fell out as she ran, and it, too, had been cataloged as evidence and taken in for trace analysis.
Surely, surely something would be found. No criminal was brilliant enough to attack four people without leaving a single speck of evidence. She was clumsy enough to leave both the stake in Miranda’s shoulder and the knife in Kat’s stomach; she had to slip up somewhere. Red Shadow or not, nobody was that good.
He sat down beside Miranda and straightened the covers around her gingerly so as not to wake her. He’d never seen anyone twist sheets the way she did. He laid his hand on her forehead, pleased that her body temperature had dropped to normal; when he first put her to bed she’d had a fever. Her body hadn’t known what to do with the wild fluctuation in her energy and had reacted as though it were ill until he woke her long enough to coax her into drinking some blood from their emergency store. She had done as he bade her, murmured something about it tasting old, and fallen back to sleep before the sentence was finished.
After a moment of watching, he sighed and stretched out alongside his Queen for a while, facing her, the slow rise and fall of her chest more comforting than he would ever have thought possible.
He touched her face, brushing his fingers along her lip, loving every inch of her and gripped, for a moment, with fear; someone was after her, and their reasons didn’t matter. What mattered was that he would find whoever it was and hurt them until they begged for death . . . but lying there staring at her, he couldn’t think of torture and violence . . . he could only think of how strange and wonderful it was to love her, to have her here, every day, to wake beside her when he had come so close to losing her.
He was grateful that the Signet bond ensured that, should she die, he would die within minutes. The thought of existing on this planet without her, as he had for so many years, was too horrible to contemplate.
There, he knew, was the difference between how he felt about her and how he had felt about Deven. Losing Dev had been heart-crushingly painful, yes, and there had been days he could barely get out of bed beneath the weight of his sorrow, but that night he had stood before the smoldering ruins of Miranda’s apartment, desperate for any hope but deep down knowing there was none, had been the worst moment of his life.
The thought, though, brought images to his mind that he didn’t want, and a longing that spread from his belly outward, that part of him that still yearned, whispering, wondering what it would be like, for just an hour . . . remembering another face on the pillow before him, another mouth catching his in the darkness, another back arching against his hands . . .
Suddenly he had to be out of the bed. Thinking about Deven while lying with Miranda was flat-out blasphemous to them both. David got up, feeling imbalanced and uncomfortable in his skin. Thank God she was asleep.
He sat down at his desk and for a moment covered his eyes with his hands, wishing to God or any convenient higher power that he could stop feeling this way. He had thought that he loved Miranda with every inch of his heart, and that there couldn’t possibly be room for anyone else. Yet some dark corner of his being had held on to what once was, all this time, and was slowly crawling through his veins, leaving behind an old fire and a new fear. He could tell himself it was purely physical, or just nostalgia . . . but he knew a lie when he heard one.
He tried checking his e-mail and messages, but there was nothing new. Still, there had to be something he could do in his workroom, and once he was out of the suite he could talk to Faith without waking Miranda.
Once in the hallway, though, he found that his feet refused to carry him to the workroom; they seemed to have an agenda all their own, and he was headed down the corridor before he realized where he was going.
Damn it.
He told himself it would be remiss not to check in on them; they were his guests, after all, and he needed to check on when they were planning to leave now that they would have to reschedule their flight. He could stop by, get a status report from Jonathan, and then go find Faith to go over whatever evidence they’d gathered from the scene. He could also put in a call to Novotny to check on the tests they were running on Jake’s and Denise’s hands. Pathological analysis took time, but there might be some preliminary results by now.
He arrived at the guest suite, where two California Elite were standing guard; it was traditional for visiting Pairs to bring a half dozen or so of their own warriors for personal security. The two guards bowed to him, and one opened the door for him.
David looked in, expecting to see Jonathan on the couch while Deven slept nearby, but to his surprise he didn’t see the Consort anywhere.
“Come in,” said a tired voice.
The guard closed the suite door behind David, who walked slowly into the room, looking around curiously. “Hello?”
There was a faint movement and he realized that it was Deven who was on the sofa, curled up against the arm, under a blanket, nursing a glass of blood. The hearth was bright and warm, the rest of the room dark.
“Where’s Jonathan?” David asked, a bit nervous without the Consort in earshot.
“Remember?” Deven said. “He said he asked if he could take Isis out tonight, and you agreed.”
“Oh, right.” He did remember; they’d been having a brief discussion about the attack and healing once everyone was safely back at the Haven, and Jonathan had said that they would probably remain in Austin until Monday just to be sure Deven was up for travel. Jonathan had expressed interest in the Friesians, and David had been more than happy to give him access to the stables whenever he liked. Jonathan was one of the few people David knew who shared his enthusiasm for the animals and one of the few he would trust with them.
He was also probably one of the only people whom Isis would allow near her without biting off a finger just for spite.
A bit wary of the situation, David lowered himself into the empty chair, asking, “How are you feeling? I thought you’d still be asleep.”
Deven half shrugged. “You know how it goes.”
“Nightmares?”
The Prime nodded without lifting his head from the blanket. He looked so young and vulnerable like that, it made David’s heart ache. “Whenever I do something foolish with my power I have a hard time shielding myself from the dreams. Jonathan can help, but he was wide awake, so I told him I’d just nap here until he came back and not to worry.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“No. Nothing.”
There was a moment’s silence, with the fire crackling and Deven breathing slowly and evenly, though he wasn’t asleep. His eyes were partway open, staring at the flames.
; “What you did for Kat was . . . nothing short of miraculous,” David said quietly. “Thank you. And I know Miranda will thank you when she can.”
“She did already.” Dev’s eyes opened a little wider, and he fixed David with his gaze, eyes nearly as violet as irises in this light. “David . . . there’s something you must know about Miranda. Something important.”
“What? What is it?”
The Prime carefully pushed himself more upright. “She’s not like the others, David. She’s not like Jonathan, nothing like any other Queen. What she’s brought to you . . . nothing like your bond has been seen in the Council in over a thousand years. I wish I could explain it to you, but I don’t know what it means, or even how it’s different . . . but I can feel it. No Pair can expect to lead an ordinary life, but you . . . the two of you have something very important to do together.”
“I thought Jonathan was the prescient one,” David stammered, trying and failing to cover how rattled he was by Deven’s words.
“You know I have it, too, in smaller measure. I never use it except to fight, but this time . . . trust me, my darling. It’s not a matter of seeing the future. I know this. Whatever life you had planned, whatever peace you had hoped to attain, you’ll never have it. Accept that now and you’ll be much happier.”
They stared at each other a long moment before Deven relaxed back into the cushions and said, “It makes it hurt less, somehow, knowing that you were meant for such a life.”
David raised an eyebrow. “You were the one who—”
“I know.” Deven cut him off, waving a hand. “I’ve heard it all before.” He ran his hand back through his hair. “David . . .” A note of entreaty entered Deven’s voice, as well as reluctance, even fear, to say what had to be said. “I’ve tried my best to make up for how I treated you. For years now I’ve done everything I could to earn back your trust. I’ve done things that . . .” He trailed off, eyes returning to the fire.
David frowned. “What have you done?”
Deven ignored the question. “I can’t force you to forgive me. And if you never will . . . how can we remain friends at all? We’ve been dancing around this since I arrived . . . no, for years. Somehow we have to move on from here.”
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